Cole nodded. “Aye,” he said, unsure if Alastor was appalled or pleased with the request. “As I said, I learned a great deal about being a husband in those years that I was married. I would be devoted and true, I swear it. Cori would never want for anything. I realize the de Velt name is either feared or hated in England, and mayhap not the most prestigious, but I promise you that I would make a worthy husband. She would have a good life.”
He sounded like he was begging and Alastor put up a hand to ease him. “Cole, I do not doubt your character,” he said. “But…”
He was cut off when Ares suddenly appeared in the doorway. “Papa,” he said, interrupting. “The army from the south is growing closer. You must come.”
Alastor was on his feet, but he wasn’t so preoccupied that he didn’t realize that Cole was expecting an answer. He put a hand on the man’s shoulder as he walked past him.
“I am sorry, Cole,” he said. “We shall continue this conversation later.”
“Cole, you come as well,” Ares said. “If it is The Marshal, I am sure he will want to see you.”
So much for a most opportune discussion. Cole could have throttled Ares for coming when he did. With a heavy sigh, he stood up, slowly dying on the inside because Alastor had been cut off mid-thought. Was the man opposed to a marriage and simply wanted to let him down easy? If he had been agreeable, surely he would have said so right away.
But he hadn’t.
Or he hadn’t beenableto.
Feeling frustrated and disappointed, Cole followed Alastor and Ares from the keep.
*
“There was abattle here,” Bric said in his heavy Irish brogue. “Look at how half of the village as been burned. They’re only now rebuilding. I wonder what happened?”
No one had an answer, least of all Christopher de Lohr.
Riding at the head of a contingent of six thousand men, he was focused on Castle Keld in the distance, rising like a jewel above the darkening landscape as the sun sank low in the west. In fact, the pale-stoned castle was bathed in pink, giving it an ethereal appearance.
They’d arrive at their destination.
Unfortunately, the village surrounding their destination had clearly seen some destructive activity. The village hugged the hill that the castle sat upon, with cottages stacked about a quarter of the way up the rise and then again dotting the surrounding countryside. There was a business district in the village that surrounded the communal well, and those cottages as well as some on the north side of the village had been damaged or burned.
“Something has happened, indeed,” Christopher said, looking around. “Had it been a fire that had spread from one house to the next, there would have been continuity in the damage, but there’s none at all. It’s in clusters, which tells me someone took a torch to the village.”
“Does de Bourne have enemies we did not know about?” Dashiell asked.
“None that I am aware of.”
The reply came from William Marshal.
Riding behind Christopher, his three-point shield was slung over his left knee, perhaps the most recognizable standard in England– the Scarlet Lion.
The Marshal was fairly old to be going on a battle march, but he was determined. If there was a war to be managed, he intended to do the managing first-hand, and in a case like this with the Scots threatening to invade Northumberland, he wasn’t going to stay home and leave the heavy fighting to men like Christopher and David de Lohr, Alexander de Sherrington, Bric MacRohan, Dashiell du Reims, Maxton of Loxbeare, Kress de Rhydian, or even Achilles de Dere.
He was going to come personally.
These were the men whose armies had been gathered the fastest, armies ready to move on short order. Christopher and Maxton had moved their armies from the Welsh Marches with the help of Alexander, Peter, Kress, and Achilles, while Bric brought the de Winter war machine from Norfolk and Dashiell came up from Wiltshire.
David was riding with his brother and he was still expecting his army from Canterbury to catch up with them at some point, but that was at least a week away, as were the de Nerra and Forbes armies. They were far to the west and in Gart Forbes’ case, nearly to Cornwall, so there were still pieces of the mighty army moving to rendezvous at The Keld, including The Marshal’s own army from Pembroke Castle in Wales. Pembroke’s army was to join with the de Lara army at Welshpool and then they would make their way north.
Lastly, they were still expecting troops from Richmond Castle, led by Caius d’Avignon, and those troops should be arriving in a day or two. Caius was under orders to go straight to The Keld, so it was only a matter of time before they appeared on the horizon. The six thousand men that were arriving todaywasn’t nearly the end of all of the men that would eventually join.
And The Marshal was counting on it.
“Bric, Dash,” The Marshal said as he turned to the men closest to him. “We must set up an encampment for the night, so send out men to find the best ground before it gets too dark. Somewhere near the castle. Be quick about it.”
Bric and Dashiell reined their horses around, breaking off men to go on the hunt for a suitable piece of land to park a massive army on, as The Marshal spurred his horse forward until he was riding next to Christopher.
“I am very curious to know what has been happening here,” he muttered, looking around the damaged village. “Whohas de Bourne been fighting?”
